Nicholas danced with Lady Isabella at the Alleynes’ ball—a quadrille and a waltz—and then claimed her hand several hours later at the Warwicks’, in a ballroom draped with pink silk. The champagne, when he procured two glasses after a particularly energetic country dance, was also pink.
After handing Lady Isabella to her next partner, Nicholas retired to the back of the ballroom and leaned his shoulders against the pink-swathed walls. He took an idle sip of champagne, surveying the dance floor, his eyes sliding from one débutante to the next. Clarissa Whedon would be acceptable as a wife, as would Agatha Harrow. Miss Whedon wasn’t a beauty, but pulchritude was unimportant in a bride. A compliant nature, a quiet disposition, youthfulness—those were what he required, and Miss Whedon had all three. Miss Harrow was pretty, in a rather colorless way, but her air of timidity reminded him strongly of Harriet Durham.
Nicholas eyed the pink champagne distastefully and took another sip. His gaze returned to Clarissa Whedon. He tried to imagine her seated across the breakfast table from him, plain-faced and quiet. It could work. It could work very well.
He had settled on his possible choices of bride—Harriet Durham, Clarissa Whedon, Patience Bourne, and Agatha Harrow—by careful observation over a number of days. He’d finally chosen Harriet because she was the youngest and therefore—or so he’d thought—the most easily molded into a suitable wife. And, he acknowledged wryly, because she was the prettiest.
A poor choice, as it had turned out.
Nicholas swallowed the last of the champagne. He would dance with Clarissa Whedon and perhaps take her to supper, to confirm his decision.
He straightened away from the wall, oddly reluctant to solicit Miss Whedon’s hand as a dance partner.
The reason for his reluctance was easy to identify: if he had a choice, he would prefer to dance with Lady Isabella.
Nicholas shook his head, annoyed with himself. He placed his empty glass on a table cluttered with discarded glassware and strolled around the ballroom to where Clarissa Whedon sat with her mother.
Miss Whedon was of middle height, with a round face, brown hair, mild blue eyes, and a robust figure. One day she would be as stout as her mother. That was unimportant. What he liked about her was her air of calmness. She didn’t blush, as Harriet had used to, when he asked her for the next dance. Her manner was unflustered as he escorted her onto the dance floor.
There was no need to ask Clarissa Whedon to join him for supper; the dance had confirmed what he already knew of her: in temperament and character she was precisely what he was looking for. Nicholas searched for a word to describe Miss Whedon as he led her from the dance floor. The only word he could come up with—stolid—he cast aside. Stolid wasn’t the word he was looking for.
He returned Clarissa Whedon to her mother’s care, bowed, and went in search of something to drink. The question now was: when to make his offer?
Nicholas plucked a glass of pink champagne from a tray and swallowed a mouthful. It was flat, like his mood.
He grimaced, and turned the stem of the glass between his fingers. Why not speak to Mrs. Whedon tonight? Ask if he could call on her and her husband tomorrow morning? He’d spent the past ten months preparing for this moment: selling his commission, taking over the administration of his estate, readying the house for a wife and children. He should be eager, enthusiastic—
“Nicholas.”
He turned his head. His brother stood before him. Gerald’s lips were tightly pursed and his nostrils ever so slightly flared, as if he smelled something unpleasant. Nicholas could only smell lavender water, which fragrance surrounded his brother.
“Gerald,” he said, inclining his head in polite acknowledgment. “How do you do?”
Gerald’s shirt-points and neckcloth were so high and so starched that he was unable to return the gesture. He bowed stiffly from the waist. His person was overloaded with jewelry. Diamonds glittered on his buckles, his fingers, and in the folds of his neckcloth. “I’m leaving town tomorrow.”
Nicholas swallowed another mouthful of champagne and said nothing.
Gerald leaned closer. “If you had any respect for the family, you would leave town yourself!” His tone was bitter and affronted, each s hissed, each t hard. “Instead of forcing me to leave.”
If you had any backbone, you would stay. Nicholas didn’t utter the words; he held his temper in check.
Gerald glanced at Lady Isabella, going down the contredanse with her partner. “You’re wasting your time,” he said contemptuously. “She won’t have you. She refused two dukes.”
“I have no intention of marrying Isabella Knox,” Nicholas said, stung into replying. Fool. You let him goad you. He tightened his grip on the champagne glass and made his voice bored, disinterested. “We’re merely friends.”
Gerald snorted. He turned on his heel and left, taking his outrage—and the scent of Steele’s lavender water—with him.
Nicholas sipped the pink champagne, his annoyance diminishing with every mincing step that Gerald took away from him. He watched Lady Isabella dance: golden hair and creamy skin and rosy, laughing lips.
She stood out from among the other dancers, dazzling in a ball gown of forget-me-not blue stitched with seed pearls, but what drew his eyes was more than the gown and the golden hair, more than her height and her beauty. It was something else, something that was purely hers.
Nicholas narrowed his eyes, trying to identify what it was that made Lady Isabella different from every other lady in the ballroom. Not merely her poise and the easy, graceful confidence, but something more than that, something that made her seem to shine from the inside.
She had an unselfconsciousness that few people in the room had. An inner serenity.
She’s happy to be herself, he realized.
How many people could say that? Could he?
Nicholas lifted his hand to the scar, caught the movement, and lowered his hand. The burn was what people saw. But it’s not who I am.
He scanned the ballroom again, examining the débutantes. They were girls, their characters only half-formed. What would they be like as women?
He returned his gaze to Lady Isabella. Would Clarissa Whedon grow into a woman like her? Would she shine from the inside?
“Good evening, sir.”
Nicholas turned his head, to discover a second member of his family standing alongside him.
“Harry?” he said, surprised. He surveyed his nephew’s clothes. Harry was no longer aping the dandy set. Gone were the extravagances of fashion. The lad was dressed neatly, but quite plainly. Almost like—
Like me.
“Isn’t this rather tame for you?” he asked, wondering if Gerald had seen his son’s attire.
Harry flushed faintly. “Oh, I like balls well enough,” he said in an airy, careless tone.
“I had thought deep play at gaming hells was more your thing,” Nicholas said sardonically.
Harry’s flush deepened. “If you must know, sir, I’ve decided to not gamble for a while.”
“Pockets to let again, Harry?”
“No, sir.”
Nicholas let his gaze rest on the boy’s black eye. “Fallen out with your crowd?”
Anger flared in Harry’s face. “They had no right to call you an ogre. No right at all!”
“All London is doing it,” Nicholas said, dryly. He swallowed the last of the pink champagne. It was lukewarm, and even less palatable than it had been before.
“Well, they shouldn’t!”
Harry’s loyalty was oddly touching—and if it separated the lad from the wild, expensive crowd he ran with, so much the better. “I can’t recommend the champagne,” Nicholas said, looking for somewhere to put the empty glass.
Harry continued, as if he hadn’t heard him. “When you find out who’s responsible, I hope you horsewhip him!”
“It’s a woman.”
“Oh,” Harry said, his outrage deflating slightly.
Nicholas glanced around the ballroom, at the matrons sitting with their heads bent together in gossip, at the ladies dancing. Perhaps even a woman in this room.
The major danced well, his hand warm in the small of her back, but he seemed to derive little pleasure from the waltz. His face held a polite smile, but beneath that was grimness. Isabella knew the reason; she’d heard the excited exclamation as clearly as he had: Have you seen the Ogre? I hear he’s here. The débutante who’d uttered those incautious words had flushed a vivid red when she’d turned to find Major Reynolds standing almost at her elbow. He had made no sign that he’d heard, had uttered no comment as he escorted Isabella onto the dance floor, but anger had been bright and cold in his eyes.
Isabella danced silently. Her pleasure in the evening was gone. In its place was guilt. My fault. My tongue that did the damage. And alongside the guilt was anger. She might disagree with Major Reynolds’ decision to choose so young a bride, might feel contempt for his reasons, but in all other regards the major was a man to be admired. He was courageous. He was intelligent. He was honorable. Fine qualities; and yet London chose to laugh at him.
“Would you like something to drink?” Major Reynolds asked when the musicians had laid down their bows. “Champagne?”
Isabella looked up at his face, at the hard green eyes, at the livid scar. “Thank you. That would be nice.” She laid her hand on the major’s arm, aware of a foolish urge to protect him, to shield him from ridicule.
“Reynolds!”
The major turned his head swiftly. “Mayhew? By all that’s marvelous!” He extended his hand. Gone were the grimness and the suppressed anger. In their place was a grin that made him look quite startlingly attractive. “Lady Isabella, may I make Lieutenant Mayhew known to you?”
Lieutenant Mayhew bowed over her hand. He was a lanky, loose-limbed man of perhaps her own age, blond-haired and brown-eyed. His face was tanned above a green Rifleman’s uniform, and alive with levity. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Isabella.” His gaze was openly appreciative. “May I beg the honor of a dance?”
The major made a sound beneath his breath that was almost a laugh. He turned to Isabella, still grinning. “Be warned, my lady. Mayhew is a rackety, ramshackle fellow. A regular here-and-thereian!”
The lieutenant matched Major Reynolds’ grin and made no attempt to deny the charge.
Isabella laughed and allowed herself to relax. “Certainly we shall dance, Lieutenant Mayhew.”
She took her place opposite him in the quadrille. “How unexpected for you to meet Major Reynolds here,” she said, as they waited for the dance to start.
“Unexpected?” The lieutenant shook his head. “I should have known I’d find him at a ball.”
“Really?” Isabella lifted her eyebrows. “I was under the impression that Major Reynolds didn’t much care for dancing.”
“Reynolds? Not like dancing?” Lieutenant Mayhew laughed and shook his head again. “I’ve seen him dance the night away on many an occasion.”
“Oh,” said Isabella.
“Why, if you’d seen the lengths he went to in Madrid to procure tickets for himself and his—er . . .” The lieutenant hesitated for a moment, and then hurried on. “It was a grand ball—in Wellington’s honor, you know. The tickets were dashed hard to get hold of.”
Isabella glanced across the ballroom to where Major Reynolds stood. She studied his face for a moment, trying to imagine him in Madrid with a Spanish beauty on his arm. It was a difficult image to conjure up; there was nothing of the libertine about Major Reynolds. She couldn’t envisage him uttering practiced, flowery speeches and whispering sweet nothings in a lady’s ear. He was too hard-faced, too disciplined, too stern.
The lieutenant was another matter. She had no doubt that he’d left a trail of broken hearts behind him, with his easy manners and the light-hearted laughter in his eyes—and the disarming thread of seriousness underlying the levity. “You served with Major Reynolds?”
“In the Peninsula, and at Waterloo. He was my brigade major. A regular Come-on.”
“A Come-on?” Isabella said, baffled.
“Officers are either Come-ons or Go-ons,” the lieutenant explained. “They lead from the front, or the back. Reynolds led from the front.”
“Oh,” she said, understanding. She turned her head again and observed Major Reynolds, now talking to a young man she recognized as his brother’s oldest son. “He was a good officer?”
“The best,” Lieutenant Mayhew said simply. “There’s no one else I’d rather have served under.”
The quadrille claimed their attention and Isabella spent an agreeable half hour, the lieutenant’s tongue being light and flirtatious and never wanting for words. Their bows made and the musicians’ instruments laid down, the lieutenant escorted her to where Major Reynolds stood. Young Harold Reynolds was sporting a black eye. He bowed politely to Isabella and greeted Lieutenant Mayhew most correctly, but his expression as he gazed at the lieutenant’s uniform approached awe.
“Do you remember the ball at Ciudad Rodrigo?” Lieutenant Mayhew said. “These draperies remind me of it.”
Major Reynolds grinned. “How could I forget?” He turned to Isabella. “Wellington claimed the best house left standing, but there was a hole in the roof where a cannon ball had come through, and one in the floor. They hung the ballroom with yellow silk, and as for the hole in the floor . . .”
“They laid a mat over it.” The lieutenant took up the tale. “And posted a man to see that no one fell in!”
Reminiscent laughter lit the major’s eyes. “Now that was a ball!”
On impulse Isabella turned to the lieutenant. “I’m hosting a party at the theater tomorrow night. The Venetian Outlaw is playing.” She included young Harold Reynolds in her smile. “Would you care to join us?”
Both men bowed and expressed pleasure at the invitation, and Isabella was aware of a sense of relief. With the light-hearted Lieutenant Mayhew as one of her party, the major must enjoy the evening—however much London stared and laughed at him.
The theater party comprised the Washburnes, himself and Mayhew and Harry, and Lady Isabella and her cousin. Mrs. Westin was a woman of middle years with faded blue eyes and a kindly face. She was dressed in widow’s black. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Major Reynolds,” she said when they were seated. His scar appeared not to disconcert her; she looked fully at his face as she spoke. “Do you enjoy the theater?”
“I do.”
Their box was private, and yet the bustle of the theater surrounded them. The ceiling echoed with the sound of hundreds of conversations, with the squawk of instruments being tuned, with laughter and catcalls as the more common members of the audience filled the pit below.
“Major Reynolds is something of a thespian,” Mayhew said, leaning forward. “I’ve seen him tread the boards on a number of occasions.”
Nicholas was aware of Lady Isabella turning her head to look at him, an expression of surprise on her face. Alongside her, Harry looked equally surprised.
“You act, sir?”
Nicholas shrugged. “It was a tradition among the Light Division.”
“Is he any good, Lieutenant?” Lady Isabella asked, sounding slightly bemused.
“First rate!” Mayhew answered. “I wish you could have seen his Romeo, ma’am. It was unsurpassed.”
“Romeo?” Lady Isabella said, sounding even more bemused.
Nicholas shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “A comic rôle.”
“I’ve never laughed so much in my life,” Mayhew said. “And as for Wellington, I thought he’d die choking!”
“Wellington?” said Mrs. Westin, a note of reverence in her voice.
“We were in winter quarters,” Mayhew explained. “Fuentes de Oñoro, wasn’t it?”
Nicholas nodded.
“We found a disused chapel in Gallegos and put on performances. Wellington rode over sometimes to watch.”
“A chapel,” Mrs. Westin said, with a slight frown.
“The Bishop of Ciudad Rodrigo felt just as you do, madam,” Mayhew said. “He laid a solemn curse upon the enterprise.”
His smile, at once apologetic and charming, won an answering smile from Mrs. Westin. “Well, if Wellington didn’t disapprove . . .”
“On the contrary. I’ve rarely seen him so willing to be pleased. And if you could have seen Reynolds, ma’am, you would understand. His Romeo is the funniest thing I’ve ever witnessed.”
Fortunately the curtain rose at that moment. The various pairs of eyes that had been fixed on him—Gussie amused, Harry awed, Lady Isabella astonished—turned towards the stage, where a picturesque and gothic grotto was revealed.
A man stepped onstage, a letter in his hand. He paused a moment as the hubbub of the audience subsided, and then read aloud, his voice carrying over the subdued murmur coming from the pit.
“‘A man once honored with your friendship has important secrets to communicate. Repair alone this night, at the hour of eight, to the grotto in the palace gardens.’”
The actor lifted his head and gazed out over the audience, his expression perplexed. “From whom is this appointment? Its mystery bespeaks an enemy rather than a friend.”
A clock offstage struck eight times, and Nicholas released the breath he’d been holding and settled himself into enjoyment of the play.
After the first act, when the actors had retired from the stage, a box attendant brought refreshments. Lady Isabella had spared no expense; the selection of cakes and beverages was excellent.
Nicholas leaned back in his chair, enjoying the noise rising from the crowd below, the indefinable scent and atmosphere of the theater. He sipped his burgundy. The wine was velvety on his tongue, slightly spicy.
“I hear that London is calling you an ogre,” Mayhew said in a low, laughing voice.
Nicholas grunted. “What else have you heard?”
“That you’re laying siege to an acknowledged beauty.” Mayhew glanced past him at Lady Isabella. “You always did have good taste.”
“We’re merely friends,” Nicholas said, and ignored Mayhew’s expression of disbelief. He had decided on a bride: Clarissa Whedon. She had no beauty, but her nature was quiet and yielding and her mother, with four daughters to dispose of, must be pleased to receive his offer, ogre or not.
He listened with half an ear as Mayhew regaled Harry with tales of army life. “. . . ate acorns for dinner. The commissariat had sent the wagons by the wrong route . . .”
“A comic actor, Major?” a voice said quietly beside him. “You have unexpected depths.”
He turned his head. Lady Isabella sat where Mrs. Westin had. Her mouth quirked into a smile. “I must confess I find it hard to imagine you as Romeo.”
“I mostly took the rôle of villain.” Nicholas raised a finger to his cheek, tapping the hardened skin lightly.
Her gaze flicked to it. “Major, if you don’t mind me asking . . . how did you acquire the scar?”
The babble of voices faded. In his ears were shouts, the crackle of flames, the sound of a man screaming. “The billet I was in caught fire.”
“Ah,” she said. “How unlucky for you.”
Nicholas met her eyes. “No,” he said. “I was lucky.”
She considered the words in silence for a moment. “There were others in the billet?”
“Four of us.” Crammed into a dirt-floored hovel with a tiny, creaking loft beneath the roof. “I’m the only one who got out.”
“I’m sorry,” Lady Isabella said simply.
Nicholas shrugged. “It was a long time ago.” He raised his glass and took a mouthful, but he tasted smoke on his tongue, smelled the scent of burning flesh. For a moment he experienced nausea, twisting in his belly. Bile climbed up his throat.
Nicholas lowered the glass, his fingers tight around the stem, and forced himself to swallow the wine.
“Forgive me for asking, Major. I apologize.”
He focused on Lady Isabella. Her expression was as contrite as her voice. She had seen his discomfort.
“Not at all.” He forced a smile. “It was a long time ago, and as I said, I was lucky.”
Her sober expression didn’t alter. Was that pity in her eyes?
Nicholas straightened in the chair. The last wisps of memory faded, the whiff of smoke, the nausea. “I was lucky,” he said firmly. “Twelve years of soldiering, and no injuries in battle. Few men can say that.”
Her gaze went to the scar again.
“What do you see?” he asked her bluntly. “When you look at it.”
“Pain.”
He raised his hand to his cheek, to the ridges of melted flesh, the roughness, the smoothness. “When I look at myself in the mirror I remember how lucky I am.”
“You do?” Her tone was dubious.
“Yes,” he said firmly. I survived.
Lady Isabella’s expression relaxed into a smile. She believed him.
Nicholas relaxed, too. No more pity.
“Do you know . . .” Lady Isabella’s voice was musing. Her gaze rested on the scar again. “I hardly notice it now. Only when—” She glanced at him, meeting his eyes, and colored slightly.
“Only when someone calls me an ogre.” He finished the sentence for her.
Her cheeks became pinker. “Yes.”
I hope my wife will learn to see past it, too. To ignore it. “What’s your opinion of Clarissa Whedon?” he asked abruptly.
“Clarissa Whedon?” Interest brightened her eyes. “Do you intend to offer for her?” She bit her lip. “Forgive me, Major, that was an impertinent question.”
Nicholas made a gesture of negation. “Yes, I do intend.” He tilted his glass and watched the play of light on the wine. “What do you think of her?”
“She seems a nice girl.”
Nicholas glanced at her. There was a slight frown on her brow, as if she searched for a word. “Placid,” Lady Isabella said at last, meeting his eyes. “She seems very placid.”
“Yes,” Nicholas said. That was the word he’d been searching for last night. Not stolid; placid. Calm and unruffled, quiet. And young enough not to be set in her ways. Young enough for a husband to mold her. He smiled and lifted the wineglass to his mouth. Exactly what he wanted in a wife.
After the curtain had fallen, in the bustle of movement and noise, of comments, of cloaks being sought, Gussie turned to Lady Isabella. “May I bring Grace around tomorrow?”
“Certainly. Would she like to play with the kittens?”
“She would like to have one,” Gussie said wryly. “The ginger one.”
“Not an hour goes past without her asking after it,” her husband said from behind her, his tone a mix of amusement and resignation. “She even has a name for it: Saffron.”
“We give up,” Gussie said with a grimace, but there was laughter in her eyes.
Lady Isabella’s mouth tucked in at the corners, as if she was trying not to smile. “Oh, dear,” she said. “I’m so sorry!”
“Kittens?” Mayhew asked, stepping up alongside Nicholas. “You have kittens, ma’am?”
“Yes.” Lady Isabella turned to him. “Do you know someone who’d like one?”
“Me,” Mayhew said. “Would you by any chance have two?”
“Yes,” Lady Isabella said again, looking at the lieutenant with all the astonishment Nicholas felt.
“Why do you want kittens?” Nicholas asked, putting up his eyebrows.
“To give to my niece and nephew,” Mayhew said promptly. “They’re twins,” he explained to Lady Isabella. “My sister’s children.”
Lady Isabella smiled at him, approval warm in her eyes. “Certainly you may have two kittens, Lieutenant Mayhew. I would be very pleased to give them to you.”
Nicholas pulled on his gloves. For no reason that he could identify, he felt slightly disgruntled.